


(shoot) the hand that feeds

by gunfever



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Bloodplay, Boot Worship, Dom/sub Undertones, Don't Try This At Home, Dubious Consent, Gun Violence, Gunplay, M/M, Mild Gore, Painplay, heed the tags ye who enter here, none of this is even remotely safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 23:46:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8422327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunfever/pseuds/gunfever
Summary: He’d been more than ready to leave, already moving towards the door the People Eater had shuffled through a minute ago, when Joe offhandedly mentioned something about “going to check on the wives,” his tone disgustingly full of nonchalance and airy disregard and unspoken ownership. Something inside Kalashnikov snapped.





	

He’d been fine, he’d been totally fucking _fine,_ for the entirety of the useless Citadel meeting he and Richard had been so abruptly summoned to. He’d sat through two goddamn hours of Joe demanding more this, more that, more everything in return for less water. Less water! As if his people could just give that up for a few days, oh well we’ll just stop _drinking_ so Joe in all his ‘holiness’ can get a few more rounds of ammunition out of this shitty deal. He’d listened, silently fidgeting with his bandoliers, while he and Richard squabbled over figures and percentages, Joe refusing to budge even slightly, the other acquiescing to Joe’s frivolous whims without nearly enough fight. And, so help him, Kalashnikov even _thanked_ Joe for arranging this abhorrent meeting, aiming to get through the formalities so he could get the fuck away from the Citadel, from Joe and his groveling soldiers.

 

He’d been _more than ready_ to leave, already moving towards the door the People Eater had shuffled through a minute ago, when Joe offhandedly mentioned something about “going to check on the wives,” his tone disgustingly full of nonchalance and airy disregard and unspoken ownership.

 

Something inside Kalashnikov snapped. 

 

He froze, one foot already through the threshold. He’d been angry at his Colonel before, furious even. But this? This felt like a ball of heated lead between his lungs and he needed it out. It had been _too fucking long_ since Moore’d been reminded that he was no god.

 

“Sure, your _wives_ ,” he drawled, lingering a bit too long on that last word. He turned on his heel to face Joe, the mother’s eyebrows instantly knitting in annoyance. “‘Cause, you know, everyone’s wives need to be locked in a _fucking vault._ ”

 

Joe stepped toward him, raising one hand as if to silence him. “Major, enough. Calm down.” He gestured to Kalashnikov’s tense frame. “You’re clearly worked up.”

 

_Wrong move, Joe._ Before he could even process it, his gloved hands had gone to his twin Colt New Frontiers, drawing them viper-quick and closing the short distance between Joe and himself. His chest felt like it was _boiling_ as he stormed towards the other man and he very nearly pulled the trigger right then and there. Joe, predictably, didn't budge, arms crossed over his ridiculous chestpiece, looking for all the world like a petulant child. Apt, Kalashnikov thought bitterly. 

 

It wasn't until the Major was nearly upon him that Joe began to realize he wasn't fucking around. And it wasn't until he’d lashed out to strike him across the cheek that Joe attempted to push him away. 

 

The gunshot-like crack of steel on bone sent Joe reeling before he had a chance to deflect the blow. _Damn. The bastard was still standing._

 

“K-Kal!” Joe spluttered, clutching his bleeding face as he stumbled backwards. “The fuck’s wrong with you? Back off!”

Kalashnikov paid no heed to Joe’s orders, backing him up at gunpoint ‘till the larger man’s back was pressed against the rough-hewn wall. “Funny you should ask, _Colonel,_ ” he snarled, jaw clenched so hard his remaining teeth ached. “You hypocritical piece of shit.”

 

Joe moved to grab one of the two handguns aimed at his head and was met with a swift knee to the groin that his codpiece did little to soften. He doubled over, groaning at the sudden wave of nausea it caused. Kalashnikov’s searing temper somehow grew hotter at the sound. Some fucking god-king he was. Moore deserved to be hurt after everything he’d done. After everything the Major had been forced to tolerate he should have to beg for forgiveness. 

 

Kalashnikov was barely lucid at this point and he'd never cared less in his life. 

 

Before Joe could recover, the Major unfastened the horrid mask’s buckle and _yanked_ the thing from Moore’s face, caring little for the reddening scrapes the motion left on the man’s lips pinched in an indignant scowl. Kalashnikov was seething as he pushed the barrel of one weapon into the pockmarked flesh of the other’s throat, trigger finger _aching_ to be used. He pictured how it would look, Joe’s head jerking back against the sandstone, gore splattering in a crimson mockery of a halo around him. God, the only thing the Major wanted was to see the disgusting creature trapped in front of him _dead._

 

Joe’s scowl deepened. “Back _off,_ Kal,” he rumbled--rather unsteadily, Kalashnikov noted with malicious satisfaction. “You and I both know you don't have the balls to do it or you’d have shot me long ago.”

 

Oh, that was funny, wasn't it? Kalashnikov leaned in, toothy smile nearly grazing Moore’s own bleeding lips. “You think I’m kidding, do you?” he rasped, his eyes glinting and focused on Moore’s. “Not this time, you thick brute.” And before he could react, the Major moved the barrel of the gun from Joe’s throat to his shoulder. 

 

Whatever asinine reply Moore’d been about to spit out was silenced as a deafening _bang_ split the air, coursing through the Major, all electricity and white-hot, joyous release blinding him with its fiery intensity. Joe screamed, unable to stifle his unexpected agony as the bullet tore through his shoulder. He sank to the floor, his legs gone slack and useless and Kalashnikov snickered. 

 

He nudged the man crumpled at his feet with a steel-toed boot, simultaneously stowing the unused gun. A shaky moan was the only response, spurring another jolt of glee that pooled in the base of the Major’s spine. He dropped lithely to a crouch, tilting Joe’s face to get a good look at his pained expression. Droplets of blood had leapt from his wounded shoulder to mingle with the powdered gypsum Joe insisted on wearing. _Hah._ Like the sun was the only thing Joe thought needed protection from. 

 

The wounded man’s skin was noticeably paler underneath that chalk. Beads of sweat--whether from pain or terror, Kalashnikov couldn't tell--had begun to pool along his hairline. His eyes, too, were red-rimmed and glistening with unwanted tears. The Major wondered how he’d never noticed how much _better_ his Colonel looked like this. When he was genuinely afraid of dying. He knew the shot wouldn’t kill him, though--he’d avoided any major arteries. Besides, the old bastard had survived worse injuries

 

The corners of his mouth twitching into a grin, Kalashnikov holstered the bloody gun still in his hand and dipped two leather-clad fingers into the steady rivulets of blood trailing from Joe’s injured shoulder. “Poor _Joe,_ ” he cooed airily, his voice laden with false concern. “I bet that really hurt, didn't it?” He wiped a tear that Joe’d been unable to hold back with his bloodied fingers, leaving a sticky streak across the petrified warlord’s cheek. “There, that’s better.” 

 

He must have really lost it by then, he noted as he found himself unable to _not_ lean down and lick a long stripe up Joe’s face. In any other situation the taste of gypsum, sweat and Joe’s tangy blood would have been disgusting, but the Major found it absolutely intoxicating. Joe’s anguish--finally, after all these intolerable years, anguish at his own hands--was nothing short of _delicious._

 

If Kalashnikov had been any more lucid, he might have stopped there. But Joe was right there at his feet, wounded and defenseless and so very small and Kalashnikov was brimming with gallons of untapped rage. 

So he didn't stop. 

 

Bloodied hands wound themselves into Joe’s bleached hair and _pulled,_ forcing him back onto his knees, good arm clawing uselessly at the Major’s iron grip. He cried out, high and breathless and some beast inside Kalashnikov spurred him to kick Moore in the guts where he kneeled. Joe sagged weakly, hacking and coughing as he was held firmly up by the hair the Major wanted so desperately to rip from his skull. He kicked him again, harder, this time square in the ribs. There was an audible wet crack as the steel toe met a particularly yielding rib and Kalashnikov hissed with sharp glee. 

 

Moore was trying to speak, his raw lips shaping themselves into words his spent lungs couldn't produce. Giving his hair a final yank, the Major shoved Joe to the ground, back hitting the floor with a heavy thud. Joe didn't even _try_ to get back up. 

 

“Fuk-ushiima, Moore, you’re a pathetic bastard. Some god-king you are.” He stepped over the dented chestplate, straddling the Colonel beneath him. “You and your fucking _wives_ and your War Boys, you never stopped to think even once that maybe you weren't so immortal after all.” Distantly he could hear himself speaking, rambling now and he didn't care how he sounded. Moore deserved it. He deserved it. He _did._

 

The man in question drew in a shaky breath as if to speak, teary blue eyes avoiding his own and suddenly Kalashnikov wanted nothing more than to shut him up. Dropping to his knees, both hands went to Joe’s exposed throat and _squeezed._ He leaned forward, fingers tightening around the ridged windpipe until the rattling breath Joe tried to take was entirely cut off. His chest heaved uselessly, plastic plating brushing against Kalashnikov’s thighs where he straddled him. His hands ached from the strain, the pain only spurring him to clench harder, until Joe’s pale face went from white to darkening red. He watched with detached fascination as tiny blood vessels swelled in the whites of Joe’s desperate eyes, darting back and forth, clearly struggling to process the events unfolding. He kicked weakly up, trying to dislodge the man pinning him to the floor, his attempt only serving to madden Kalashnikov further. 

 

Snarling, he released his neck and rose swiftly from the crouch, towering over Moore’s crumpled form currently staining the floor red. Moore, for his part, gasped for oxygen like it was water. He scrambled gracelessly away from his attacker’s overbearing form only to be halted by the weight of a boot pressing into his already bruising throat. 

 

The Major’s gleeful disdain was palpable in the atmosphere as he added just the slightest bit of pressure with the heel of his weighted combat boot, drawing another choked cough from the trapped warlord. Shaking pale fingers laced around the dusty leather, _still_ resisting even after all this. Well, that could be remedied easily enough. 

 

He lingered a moment longer, soaking in the involuntary noises his Colonel--not _his_ Colonel, _the_ Colonel, he reminded himself--continued to make as he lay pinned. Kalashnikov ground the boot’s treads against the corrugated cartilage of Joe’s trachea and _tsk_ ed when Joe’s pathetic attempt at resistance began to taper off. As much as he wanted the man to hurt, he couldn’t let him pass out just yet.

 

A moment’s warning was all Joe was given before Kalashnikov withdrew his foot and without thinking, stamped hard on his injured shoulder. The Major reveled in Joe’s visible agony. His mouth had gone open, teeth bloodied and the corners of his lips torn. His eyes were shut tightly yet unable to halt the constant stream of tears that mingled now with the streak of his own blood on his cheek. God, he looked weak. Immortan Joe, ruler of the _entire fucking wasteland_ , reduced to a shivering, choking wreck by his right hand man and a single bullet to the arm. He felt giddy with the newfound power.

 

“I should have done this a long time ago, _Colonel,_ ” he intoned harshly, grinding the metal toe deeper into the wound. Joe could muster no response. In all honesty, the man looked like he’d had about all he could tolerate. _Just one more thing_ , reasoned Kalashnikov, delirious with the knife-sharp physical joy of finally giving his ‘superior’ what the man had had coming for years. He looked disdainfully at his blood-stained boot, the red shining on the dull silver tip. “Now _Joe,_ you’ve gotten this dirty, wouldn’t it seem?” Still no response, but the resignation in the man’s face told the Major he knew where this was going.

 

Another tremor of repressed arousal flickered in his core. He didn’t even need to give the cowering man any further instruction.

 

Joe winced as Kalashnikov jammed the rubber treads against his already raw lips, forcing his mouth open. His heel pressed painfully against the other’s teeth as Joe’s tongue lapped hesitantly over rubber and the red-speckled steel with visible shame. His motivation to fight back had gone the way of his blood--out of his body in a constant drip.

 

The Major began to realize how absolutely wonderfully _awful_ it was that the one man in the Wasteland he’d ever really cared about was, quite literally, licking his boots clean. 

 

How absolutely _terrible._

 

And how absolutely hard this was making him.

 

He indiscreetly unfastened the copper buckle of his pants, not once looking away from the quivering mess sprawled below him. He’d crossed so many lines there was no need to bother pretending this wasn’t what he’d wanted from the start.

 

Kalashnikov sighed with relief as he freed his painfully erect cock from the confines of his clothes. He growled as he took its length into his hand, precome and Joe’s blood slicking the worn leather of his glove as he stroked himself roughly. He wouldn’t last long, he knew. His Colonel’s agony was an aphrodisiac all by itself.

 

He ground his heel harder against Joe’s teeth with each fervent pull until he was nearly thrusting into his own palm. Nearly without warning he came, shouting, caring little for the Colonel’s muffled cries of protest as the white liquid spilled onto his chest and face. Eyes glinting maliciously, the Major took in the depraved sight before him. He fondled his softening dick, coated with come and obscene gore, and laughed when Joe wiped blearily at the slick mess covering his face.

 

“You should really see yourself right now, _Colonel,_ ” Kalashnikov mocked, spitting the last word with bitter irony as he stepped back from the cowering man--no, _creature._ He tucked his spent cock back into his pants and refastened the buckle. He’d better get the hell out of dodge before some hapless War Boy, or god forbid an Imperator, walked in on the two of them like this. Besides, he was starting to come down from his high. From his _gun fever_ , to use the words of his own Boys. And he sure as hell didn’t want to face what he’d just done to the last person in the Wastes he thought he’d still loved.

 

Before his mind could fully cool, he spun on his heel and moved to leave the room, Joe still prone on the floor. His stride was angry and heavy and he filled his mind with static. Better to _not think._

 

He’d pay for this. His Farm would. His people would.

 

He didn’t care. He didn’t care. 

 

He _didn’t care._

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this originally as vent but it kind of grew on me.


End file.
